The fabulous krazykipper just informed me that the Five Acts Meme is up and running for this year and, well, you know what I'm like- I can't resist a good meme, especially if it's a kink meme ;D

I think each and every one of you guys should come and join me in this madness! It's going to be glorious amounts of fun! :D

The Five Acts Meme

7th-13th Janurary, 2011;

- Post a list of your five favourite sexual acts/kinks. - At the bottom of your list, add what fandoms/pairings you're interested in.- Comment to the master post with a link to your post.- Read other people's lists and post comment-fic based off their themes.

.Kinks; 1. Rough/Wall Sex; I want it rough and quick, with biting and scratching and maybe a bit of a fight for dominance thrown in for kicks!2. Clothing on; I need them so frantic with lust they can't even wait to undress, just hands shoved down pants, grinding, groping, whatever it takes to get off now, damnit!3. Blow-Jobs; deep-throating, tongue and teeth and bruising lips, facial coming, the works.4. Sensory Deprivation; preferably in relation to sight (blindfolds), I like it soft and sensual, with maybe a little surprising touch or two.5. Wing Fic; Including this one because I fear for my life if I miss it out again ;D But hey, who doesn't love a good wing!fic? Infact, I love it so much, I'll take it any way you want!

Crossover Fandoms; Supernatural/Leverage: Dean Winchester/Eliot SpencerTorchwood/Prison Break: Ianto Jones/Michael Schofield^these two are my favourites right now, but please don't hesitate to crossover any of my Fandom/Pairings if the will arises ;D

Sherlock's hands spread over John's hips to hold him in place, pinned down against their shared mattress. It takes a liberal application of force to keep him where he is, but Sherlock is patient and his pale hands hide a strength of his own. Even with John bucking like a possessed man, Sherlock holds him in place, holding back a smile to himself at the sign of the power that he can hold over him. John is far easier to manipulate than he realises; his body is easily played, sweeter than a violin, and Sherlock has long since devised the quickest ways to get him into this state.

Naked. Desperate. Aching.

Sherlock takes the top of John's bare cock into his mouth, allowing his tongue to slide across the slide then further down the shaft. John makes a sound as if he has been shot, all of the air halting in his lungs. There's power in Sherlock's mouth, in his jaw and lips. He can make John his, like this.

There's a simple mechanics to it, and John is expressive enough that it is easy to tell when he hits the right balance, the perfect sucking and friction. John falls apart under the slickness of Sherlock's stretched lips, spread out across the mattress for him.

Once he has come, Sherlock plans on easing him open through the post-orgasmic haze, making him slick and ready for entry. They have all night ahead of them, and Sherlock will use every second. This is just the beginning.

Yet what a beginning it is, to be able to manipulate John like this. John's mouth is open and he pants uneasily as Sherlock swallows him down. Sherlock breathes through his nose and relaxes his throat as best he can, suppressing his natural gag reflex as he eases down as far as possible. John's length slides deep between his wet lips, down past the back of his throat. Sherlock's eyes water but he doesn't let up. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and John convulses as if hit with an electric shock.

Sherlock hums and pulls back, bobbing his head. His throat feels raw in a way not dissimilar to strangulation - which, he'll confess, he has more experience with. His enemies have a terrible habit of trying to choke him. The occasions on which he has chosen to fellate a partner are considerably rarer.

John's fingers slide into his hair, carding through curls with a gentle grace Sherlock would not have expected from him. He expects to find his hair pulled at, tugged on - and, truthfully, he's never been one to object to a bit of rough treatment - but even while he is trembling on the edge of oblivion John is nothing but a gentleman. He touches but does not break; wants but does not take.

Sherlock thinks that the small details like that might be enough to make him fall in love with this idiot of a man.

He brushes the thought away and focuses on the cock in his mouth. His tempo changes - harder and faster now, he's ready to drag John over the edge. John gasps his name, surprised and shattered, but Sherlock chooses not to respond. His hand shifts below John's cock, down to his balls and over to rub against the clench of his arse, thinking of what is to come. His jaw aches.

John's hand clenches in his hair unwillingly, almost no force at all even as he comes - there's barely a second of warning, just long enough for Sherlock to make a point by staying down, and then John spills down his throat, salty fluid in hot splatters. Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows as best he can, but when he pulls back there is saliva and semen spilt over his chin. His lips are red and swollen and his hair is an utter mess, and John is looking at him in nothing less than utter shock.

"Roll over," he instructs, his voice hoarser than it ought to be. The words hurt. "I'll get you ready while you recover."

John's response in a shapeless groan, but he does as he's told under Sherlock's steady hands - he's good like that, the perfect assistant, the ideal partner. Everything Sherlock has wanted.

omgomgomgomg!! I'm sitting here all hand-flailing and trying not to scream with utter glee at the fact you wrote me Ianto/Michael in my own verse and fuck me you've got my boys so spot on and OMG I LOVE YOU SO HARD RIGHT NOW!

Slow, but steady ;D by boys kind of got sidelined by Inception and SPN/Leverage XD but I'm sure that'll change back pretty quick seeing as you keep writing me amazing fic in my verse and it's making me quite giddy and eagre to write more XD

<33

season 1 is my alltime favourite, but I rather likes season 3 as well! I'm in the process of rewatching the entire series at the moment... for, er, research purposes of course!

"Don't speak to me," Hardison said. There was an edge to his voice that Eliot had only heard once or twice before and it was not a good sign.

"I --"

"Seriously, I don't want to hear your voice right now."

Eliot crossed his arms over his chest and glared out the window while Hardison drove. He figured if Hardison was going to be a bitch, so was he. It was a very tense car ride.

They got out at the address Sophie had provided them and it turned out to be a very dead end. Literally. It was an empty lot with some kind of freaky, desiccated bird skeleton lying on the sidewalk in front of the chain link fence.

"Fucking beautiful," Hardison sighed, throwing up his hands and turning back towards the van.

Eliot took a few steps towards the fence, peering through the links, looking for who knew what. "So you're giving up just like that? You don't want to take a look around? Typical."

He heard Hardison coming, of course, but he was curious just what exactly he thought he was going to do, so he didn't brace himself or turn around. He was not expecting to end up with a face full of chain link when Hardison shoved him.

Eliot spun in an instant, grabbing Hardison by the wrist and collar and slamming him into the chain link, holding him there with his knee between Hardison's legs. "What the hell," he snarled.

The seedy part of town was empty of meth heads and cheap prostitutes until well after dark, and the sun was only just beginning to set. Neither one of them bothered to keep his voice down, even inches from each other.

"Saying sorry doesn't cut this time, Spencer. Not when it's the fifth damn time."

Eliot made a noise like an angry animal and pushed himself away from Hardison, not meeting his eyes. Hardison knew it bothered him, so he kept staring.

"You know that I'm sorry."

"I'm not sure of anything when it comes to you, man," Hardison said, and he meant it. He straightened his shirt where it had bunched under Eliot's grasp.

"Nothing?"

"Look... I like you. But you make it really fucking hard sometimes. If you want to be with me, then be with me. If you want to be with bar sluts and little blonde honeys, then go be with them."

Eliot didn't speak right away, but when he did he turn around and pressed Hardison right back into the fence. "It's not going to happen again," he promised. Hardison spent a moment trying to figure out if he was really telling the truth or if he just wanted out of the fight. Not that Eliot looked for opportunities to get out of fighting, most of the time.

"I think you should probably let me go now," Hardison said, trying to convey lightness in his voice. Eliot's eyes had gotten darker in the last thirty seconds and it was having multiple uncomfortable effects on Hardison.

"Never heard the term 'kiss and make up'?" Eliot shifted his weight and brought one arm up across Hardison's chest, pressing him back until Hardison felt the chain link biting into his skin through his tee shirt.

Hardison shut his eyes against the dizzy, rushing feeling of almost immediate hardness. "Still mad," he reminded Eliot.

"That's okay. Encouraged, even." Eliot kissed him again, harder and more insistent. Hardison blamed the pressure on his chest from Eliot's arm for cutting off air to his brain. That's the only reason he would open his mouth to Eliot's tongue; he was clearly not thinking straight.

And if that wasn't bad enough, Eliot unzipped Hardison's fly and took his dick with a firm hand. Hardison's head flew back against the fence and it rattled his brains around. Eliot's teeth were on his neck, working in a rough tandem with his hand.

Hardison's fingers scrabbled at Eliot's arms, digging his nails in and shoving at him. Eliot's didn't budge, of course, but Hardison felt better for doing it. With one more lingering bite to Hardison's lower lip, Eliot let him go and took a half step back. Hardison slumped against the fence.

"You --"

"Shut up," Hardison groaned, reaching out blindly. He caught one hand in Eliot's hair and dragged him back in for another kiss. He changed his mind at the last second and shoved him down to his knees as firmly as he could. It didn't even remotely work, but Eliot acknowledged the message with a quirked eyebrow. Instead of acquiescing, he palmed Hardison's cock again, rough and quick.

"Prove you're sorry," Hardison choked out, pushing Eliot downwards again. Eliot relented and dropped to his knees. Hardison didn't have a chance to catch his breath before Eliot's mouth was around his cock, sucking wet and warm.

Hardison tangled one of his hands in Eliot's hair, because he knew it drove him crazy, and threw the other arm over his eyes. Eliot growled when Hardison tugged his hair, the vibrations traveling up and down Hardison's spine and making his knees weak.

It was fast and noisy and messy, Hardison pulling Eliot away at the last moment and coming on his chin and down his shirt. Hardison smirked as the sharp edges of his orgasm faded away and he was left in the triumphant afterglow. "Okay," he said, tucking his dick away and straightening the front of his pants. "I believe you. You're sorry."

Eliot got to his feet, swiping the back of his across his face. "You forgive me?" He frowned when he realized he had nothing to wipe his hands on except his jeans or his already-sticky shirt.

Oh my goodness! There is just far too much awesome in this and asdfghjk you hit my kinks right on the spot! XD I LOVE that Hardison took control (that Eliot let himself be controlled) and got Eliot on his knees for him. <333

They were broken. Sherlock had noticed immediately what the psychotic wretch John had frightened away hadn’t. The vast golden-and-gray wings, wrenched from the etherspace from where they were usually hidden, were anything but whole. The smooth arches were jagged, hammered as if by heavy blows, and had never healed right.

“John.”

Sherlock began to come closer, spiraling in as he did, eyes taking in the wounded wings from every angle. He could probably, no, definitely figure out most of what John hadn’t told him before. That he’d fallen, and hit hard. Longer ago than he cared to remember, and it still pained him.

The limp may have been psychosomatic. The trembling in John’s hands went away when he was in danger. But the snapped feathers and twisted bones would never lift him above the ground again.

Sherlock stepped closer, curiosity in every line of his face. It wasn’t too late yet. John could hide his wings again, pull away, pretend in never happened. A thousand deductions on Sherlock’s part would never be able to find where John hid that piece of himself.

But he’d stretched his wings, gritting his teeth against agony, to keep Sherlock safe.

And when Sherlock finally touched him, ran his fingers through the intact feathers, the pain was so sweet John felt himself trembling all over.

He expected Sherlock to talk. Expected questions. “What distance did you fall? Why did you leave? When did you crash? How long have you been here?” Simple questions maybe, for him, but John was an anomaly. Nothing about him was normal.

“Why on Earth, if that’s the correct term, did you show me?” Sherlock demanded.

John hadn’t expected that. Didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t say anything when Sherlock’s hands moved up to the broken arches. It hurt, it always hurt, but not as much as it could have. A hundred grotesque experiments on the kitchen tables had not been wasted. Every touch mapped out the old knitted breaks, avoided the sorest places, made the pain falter and finally fade. Other sensations raced to fill the void, a vibrant rush of pleasure that sent John soaring, his wings flexing involuntarily as Sherlock’s fingers carded through the feathers.

His heart thundered as it hadn’t since the last time he’d flown, and John felt himself gasp as his wings folded Sherlock in a tight embrace. Chest to chest, feathers and flesh forming a wall against the outside world, John answered him.

“I showed you because you wanted to see them.”

Sherlock’s superior smile was tempered by the cushioned crush around him, and John felt his first kiss as softly as a feather. The pain from long-broken bones vanished completely as Sherlock explored John with lips and hands, wringing noises out of him he’d thought he was beyond uttering. Breathy pleas and urgent moans, desperate begging sounds as Sherlock spread his hands like wings, and taught John how to fly together.

THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR THIS OMG! (and so sorry for the late reply, I had to neglect LJ for a few too many days!)

this is all kinds of amazing and I love the story you managed to weave into it too, with John being and angel and sdfghjkl; THE WINGS OMG I didn't know whether to cry because they were broken and hurting or cheer because Sherlock started stroking them and it kind of made it all better and OMG THANK YOU!!! <33

Wing!fic is such a random genre, but I love it anyway. It just seemed so fitting for John's wing to have been broken, but he's still trying to do something good. And of course he'd show them to Sherlock in an emergency! this was really cool to write, and I'm so very glad you liked it! :)